


Shadows

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre notices Grantaire following Enjolras and confronts him about it, accidentally finding more in Grantaire's artwork than he really wanted to know about.  Enjolras/Grantaire with Enjolras and Combeferre close friendship.  Written based on a prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a friend based off this prompt: Combeferre gets tired of Grantaire stalking and ogling Enjolras and decides to confront him; Enjolras didn't mind the attention, though, because he likes Grantaire. General disclaimer that stalking is not love and is usually not part of a healthy relationship. Also, the rating is due to descriptions of Grantaire's artwork rather than what actually happens in the fic.

_Shadows_

It takes Combeferre a week to be certain that Grantaire is tailing Enjolras.

He doesn't know how long it had been going on before that. Grantaire is surprisingly adept at stalking his prey, and if Combeferre didn't frequently leave with Enjolras he might not have noticed.

But he _does_ tend to leave when Enjolras does, and given that their lodgings are close they have a tendency to walk most of the way home together. Once Combeferre notices the man following them the first time it's easier to spot him again.

Sometimes Grantaire leaves before them, but staggers about in the front rooms of the Musain before mysteriously ending up taking a route home that leads by Enjolras' house. Sometimes he leaves with them, seeming to start out of a drunken stupor when Enjolras' hand falls on his shoulder and urges him to go home for the evening.

But always, always, he ends up following Enjolras home, a shadow behind them in the darkness, and Combeferre doesn't like it.

He doesn't like the way Grantaire watches Enjolras during the meetings, either. It's almost fine when he watches Enjolras speaking—everyone watches when Enjolras speaks, and Grantaire's eyes tend to stay where they should during those moments, on Enjolras' face, on his hands.

Sometimes they seem to stare almost _too_ intently at his face—to fixate on his lips as they move, on his eyes, on his brow-line, clearly lost in something besides the words—but it's still better than the way he watches Enjolras when the man isn't speaking. Still better than the way Combeferre catches him watching Enjolras walk during the week that Combeferre watches Grantaire, Grantaire's eyes focused on parts of Enjolras that they have no right to be focused on.

He considers talking to Enjolras about the matter first, but he finds his jaw setting tighter and tighter as he watches Grantaire's blatant ogling throughout the meeting.

Enjolras notices his discomfort, of course. Enjolras is far too good at reading him, at sensing when something is distressing him, and Enjolras' hand falls gently on Combeferre's shoulder as they prepare to head out for the night. "Is everything all right, Combeferre?"

"I…" Combeferre watches as Grantaire attempts to don his coat and fails repeatedly, the man smiling and joking with the others as he waves off their attempts to help.

What is he to say? That he doesn't like the way Grantaire has been watching Enjolras? That he's noticed Grantaire following Enjolras, that he's worried that the man may be a spy?

Except he doesn't think the man is a spy, because there have been too many opportunities already for him to betray Les Amis if he were.

So why does he trail Enjolras? Why does he watch him like he does? "It's nothing I'd like to discuss now. Later, perhaps."

After a few seconds Enjolras nods. "Later, then. Shall we head home?"

They're the last ones left in the back room of the Musain, a common occurrence, and Combeferre nods and allows Enjolras to lead the way. He keeps checking behind them, though, and as per usual Grantaire's shadow appears before they've gone a block.

Combeferre's jaws clenches tight again, a furious protectiveness that he can't properly describe or pin down the reason for rising in him, and he turns back toward the Musain. "I'm afraid I left a book back in the café. I'd like to run back and pick it up—there's still some time for reading, if I don't mind burning some candles. Go on ahead and I'll catch up."

For a moment he thinks Enjolras is going to protest. Then the man simply frowns, shrugs, and continues on his way.

Grantaire doesn't try to hide once Combeferre starts moving directly toward him. Combeferre supposes he should give the man credit for bravery, at least. After a brief pause Grantaire even moves out of the shadows and under one of the streetlamps, illuminating himself. He clutches a sketchpad close to his chest, and his face is set in a grimace of dismay.

Coming to stand in front of the larger man, Combeferre stares up at him, trying to determine how best to broach this… topic.

This topic that shouldn't even _be_ a topic, because what man in his right mind stalked the leader of his revolutionary cell through the night?

Then again, Grantaire has never been properly one of them. He contributes nothing but the occasional bit of humor to their meetings. He hasn't betrayed them, but Combeferre's never understood why he stands with them, either, not when he so clearly has no sympathy for their cause.

"Could you please not stare at me like that?" Grantaire's mouth quirks in a half-smile as he holds the sketchbook closer to his chest. "If you've something to say to me, just say it."

"You were following Enjolras." Combeferre's voice comes out calmer than he feels, only a slight iciness to his tone betraying his emotions. "Why?"

Grantaire simply shrugs, lowering his gaze to the street.

"Why do you do everything that you do?" Combeferre's voice drops in pitch, taking on a growling undertone. "Why do you associate with us—risk yourself—when you clearly don't give a damn about what we're doing? Why do you watch Enjolras the way you do when you don't believe a word he says? _Why are you following him?_ "

Grantaire opens his mouth, closes it again with a frustrated sigh, shakes his head, and turns away.

"No. You don't get to just walk away from this." Combeferre's hand lashes out, latches onto Grantaire's arm and jerks the other man back.

Grantaire staggers, and Combeferre has to grab the man's other arm to keep him from falling. Either Enjolras has been better in his training of Combeferre than either of them thought or Grantaire is rather drunk.

Given the options, Combeferre suspects Grantaire is rather drunk.

Sometime during the skirmish the sketchpad that Grantaire had been holding has fallen to the street, and they both bend down to pick it up, Combeferre with chagrin at having potentially damaged the man's art, Grantaire with something approaching panic filling his face.

Combeferre picks up the sketchpad first, his eyes fixing on the image that it's fallen open to, and he understands the reason for the dismay as his breath catches in his throat.

Enjolras is in the forefront of the image. His face is captured beautifully, his eyes half-open, his lips partially open, an expression of sublime ecstasy making his features even more gorgeous than usual. It's an expression Combeferre hasn't seen on the man's face often—perhaps during the fighting in 1830, before it became clear that they had both won and lost. Perhaps once or twice when he's been speaking, when he's been looking toward the future, describing a world that he can see so clearly.

Never for the reason presented in this picture, though. Enjolras is not the only figure in the image. Enjolras is the centerpiece, the one in focus where he lies naked, prostrate on a couch, his body turned to the viewer, but behind him stands another man. A man that Combeferre is fairly certain is meant to be Saint-Just. The older man is also beautiful, and one of his hands is buried in Enjolras' hair, the other wrapped around Enjolras' erect phallus.

Grantaire's shaking hands clutch at the edges of the sketchpad, but Combeferre refuses to relinquish the object, shoving Grantaire away again with more vicious force than before. Standing, turning away from the other man, his cheeks burning, Combeferre looks through the other images in the book.

Most of them are of Enjolras. Every once in a while he's sketched someone else, usually one of Les Amis, but the overwhelming majority of the images are of Enjolras. The majority of those images are innocent enough, sketches of Enjolras speaking, of Enjolras reading… of Enjolras _sleeping_ , and Combeferre isn't sure he likes how accurate the depiction of Enjolras at rest and vulnerable is.

He likes it better than some of the other images, though. Better than the one of Enjolras, nude again, his wrists and his ankles bound together, writhing in pleasure beneath Marianne as the embodiment of France caresses his face while staring off into the distance with a sad, pained expression.

Better than the one of Enjolras, only half-nude but with distinct breasts, posing as Themis.

Far better than the one of Enjolras sitting on a chair, his trousers around his ankles, another man kneeling in front of him, clearly pleasuring him, and Combeferre recognizes the shaggy hair and unkempt clothing of the man in shadow, though it's Enjolras' upturned, radiant face that is the most detailed part of the image.

Combeferre's hands are shaking as he closes the sketchbook. For several long seconds he simply stares at the cover, so plain, so ordinary, giving nothing away of what it contains.

Grantaire's hands tug at the sketchpad once more, and this time Combeferre releases it.

Perhaps he shouldn't. Perhaps he should burn the thing.

He's never been one for burning artwork, though, and several of the sketches have the potential to be pieces of art. If they weren't of Enjolras… if he didn't know the man who did them…

"Combeferre." Grantaire's voice is high, panicked. "It's not what you think."

Combeferre feels both his eyebrows rise. "I'm fairly certain there's no way to misinterpret what I just saw… or what you've been doing."

"I just… he's… he's _Enjolras_." Grantaire breathes the word as though it were a prayer. "I never intend to show these to anyone, I truly don't, you don't have to worry about—"

"You will not see him again." Combeferre keeps his voice level, his expression calm as he stares up at Grantaire. "You will stop following him. You will stop coming to the Musain. You are not welcome there."

Grantaire's face twists, takes on a stubborn mulishness. "You can't—"

"If I see you anywhere near him again, I will kill you." Combeferre's voice lowers as he delivers the ultimatum.

Staring down at him, the sketchbook held protectively in one hand, Grantaire flexes his other hand into a fist. "It's not your place to decide where I can go, who I can see."

"I'm not going to wait for you to _defile_ him before interfering. You will stay away from him." Punctuating each word with a shove at Grantaire's shoulder, Combeferre drives him further down the street, away from the light of the streetlamp. "If I have to use my guns to defend him, I will. I should have known there was an ulterior motive for you being with the Amis. No man risks his life for something he doesn't believe in. How much longer were you going to wait before making your move? A month? A week? A day?"

The words come out in a guttural snarl, and Combeferre's hands clench into fists. He has no doubt that Enjolras could defend himself, has seen the man fight, but there are some things it's hard to be prepared for. Betrayal, for one, especially in such a way, when Enjolras seems unaware that romance is even a factor in most people's lives, and Combeferre gives Grantaire one final shove backward.

Grantaire staggers and falls into the street, his body curling around the sketchpad, keeping it from striking the paving stones again. His eyes are closed, his breathing rough and ragged.

"Just…" Combeferre's hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and he forces them to slowly relax. "Stay away from him, Grantaire. If you stay away from him, no one has to know why. If you don't… if you hurt him in any way…"

He doesn't finish the threat. He's already made himself clear, and all he wants to do now is distance himself as much as possible from the man shivering on the ground.

 

XXX

Combeferre goes to Enjolras' apartment.

His hands are still shaking as he knocks on the door, from adrenaline and impotent fury, and even though it's foolish and silly he needs to see that Enjolras is all right.

Not that thoughts or intentions could hurt him, and Combeferre is fairly certain that Grantaire hasn't acted yet on any of his inclinations, but it still makes his blood boil to think that the man joined the Amis because of… because of something so _petty_.

"Come in." Enjolras' voice calls from inside the room, and Combeferre enters.

Enjolras is working at his desk, and Combeferre finds his trembling receding as he takes in his friend's unconcerned body language.

Enjolras will never have to know what transpired—what was almost done to him, what liberties upon his flesh were dreamt of. Given how frequently exasperated and frustrated with Grantaire he is, he may even consider it a good thing to be rid of the cynic.

Closing the book he had been studying, Enjolras turns in his chair so that he's facing Combeferre. "Did things not go well during your discussion with Grantaire?"

"I…" Combeferre blinks, a flush rising to his cheeks. "You knew that he was following you?"

"He's been following me for over a month now." Enjolras shrugs, far too unconcerned about the situation.

"He's…" Closing his mouth, Combeferre moves over to Enjolras' bed, and sits down hard, facing Enjolras. "For over a _month_? You've _known_ he's been following you?"

"Yes." The faintest smile touches the corners of Enjolras' mouth. "He's fairly good at it, though he's been getting worse and worse lately, almost as though he wants to be caught."

"But… I mean… why?" Combeferre stares at his friend, trying to understand. "Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you stop it?"

"It didn't hurt me." Another shrug, and Enjolras continues to study Combeferre without any evidence of uneasiness or shame. "It seems to make him happy."

"Enjolras…" How to explain what could have happened? Directly, that's how, because Enjolras always appreciates directness. Trying to ignore the burn that rises to his cheeks, Combeferre lowers his voice. "I'm fairly certain he _did_ mean to hurt you, Enjolras. The way that he's been acting is abnormal—and I think I know the reason, now. I'm quite certain he intended to violate you."

Enjolras simply stares back at him, no horror or fear in his expression.

"Defile you?" Combeferre tries.

Still no reaction.

Sighing deeply, Combeferre pinches at the bridge of his nose. "Rape you, Enjolras. I saw images of you that he's sketched that… I'm fairly certain he intended to rape you. To have sex with you."

"Those two things aren't synonymous." Again that slight smile touches Enjolras' face. "And I think you're wrong."

"Oh?" Combeferre crosses his arms over his chest, his face still flushed red. "And why is that?"

"Because I've given him opportunities to approach me if that was his intent, these last few weeks, and he never has." Enjolras' shoulders rise and fall, graceful, unconcerned, unperturbed. "Even when I leave the door unlocked, he only ever comes a meter or so into the room, never close enough to touch me. He just… watches me."

"Why would you…" Fear slithers through Combeferre's veins, cold and slick, as he considers what might have happened.

"Because I'd rather control when I'm attacked than let it happen at a time and place of my attacker's choosing. But he didn't attack me." That same slight smile, fond, bemused, intrigued, tugs at Enjolras' lips. "He doesn't wish me ill, Combeferre, and… I haven't disliked this game we're playing."

"He sketched… he drew… you and him…" Combeferre can feel his face burning. "Do you actually…?"

"I don't know." Finally Enjolras looks away. "Perhaps."

"He isn't good enough for you." Combeferre's voice rises in volume as he considers these new pieces to the puzzle. "There's only a fifty percent probability of him completing even the simplest task. He thinks the revolution isn't important because _his_ life is good enough as it is. He's a drunkard and a cynic and… and everything you're not. He's not good enough for you."

The wry smile on Enjolras' lips is all for him now, Combeferre knows, as is the fondness in Enjolras' eyes. "No comment on the fact that he's male?"

"It's you." Combeferre feels a smile touch his own lips as he considers his friend. "If that's what you want… we'll find someone to make you happy. It's not like sodomy is illegal still."

"It's not like it's exactly encouraged, either. I may not know much about romance, but I know that much." Enjolras' eyes drop to his hands, his mouth turning down in a slight frown. "And I think you're selling him short."

"Oh?" Uncrossing his arms, propping them on his knees as he leans forward, Combeferre tilts his head to the side and studies his friend and leader. "In what way?"

"He keeps trying. He keeps asking for opportunities to try." Enjolras' deep blue eyes rise from the floor to meet Combeferre's as he speaks, a tender, bemused smile once more touching his mouth. "Even though he often fails, even though in the safety of the Musain he speaks ill of our goals, he continues to add his name to the list of Les Amis. He continues to risk imprisonment with us. He hasn't betrayed us, when there could be good reward in it. He… he's something different, Combeferre."

"He's…" Combeferre sighs, shaking his head. "Different is an accurate word for him, I suppose. I'm not going to be able to dissuade you from this, am I?"

"No." Enjolras meets his eyes and says the word gently. "I still don't know quite what I intend for 'this' to be, but… unless you can give me a very good reason, I won't be dissuaded from experimenting. From continuing to give him a try."

"I… may have made that rather difficult." Combeferre sighs, covering his eyes with his hands for a moment. "I told him if he came near you again, I'd kill him."

For several long seconds Enjolras merely stares at him. "Combeferre. Really?"

"You didn't see! You didn't…" Combeferre meets Enjolras' eyes, refusing to be ashamed of this. "I won't allow harm to come to you if I can prevent it."

"I know. It could have been dangerous, though." Standing, Enjolras stretches his arms above his head. "What if he had decided to turn us in because you drove him away?"

"Then I would have had yet another reason to shoot him." Combeferre stands, as well. "I won't apologize for what I did."

"I wouldn't ask you to. You acted as you saw fit, based on what you knew." Shrugging into his coat, Enjolras heads for the door. "I would appreciate it, in the future, if you actually discussed with me your concerns before attempting to defend me."

Combeferre follows Enjolras out the door. He doesn't ask where Enjolras is going. He knows. "You will be careful with him, Enjolras, won't you? The way he's fixated on you really isn't normal."

"I will be careful." Enjolras locks his apartment door, pocketing the key.

"Because I will shoot him, if he hurts you."

"Combeferre…"

"If he doesn't intend it, I'll only shoot him in the arm or the leg. I may even sew him up afterwards, if he seems properly contrite."

Enjolras doesn't quite laugh, but it's a close thing, his breath huffing out as his lips twitch into a smile. "I do believe you mean that."

"That's because I do mean it." The levity fades as Combeferre walks back into the night at his friend's side. "You are very dear to me, Enjolras. I know that you are capable of being fierce, that in battle and in politics there's nothing that can shake you, but…"

Silence descends between them, a waiting, patient silence as Enjolras studies the street in front of them. Eventually he speaks. "I feel as though I have two… shadows, I suppose works as a metaphor. One is light; one dark. One walks at my side; one follows behind, despite all that I do. One reflects who I am; the other… the other is all that I am not, both for better and for worse. I would very much prefer to keep both shadows, if it's possible."

"I've no intention of leaving you anytime in the near future." Combeferre's hand rests briefly on Enjolras' shoulder, and he gives a scowl that is only half-joking. "And despite what I told him, I… suspect Grantaire would not have been scarce from our lives for very long, either."

"Perhaps not." Enjolras' hand covers his. "Still, best to correct these… misunderstandings quickly. I will see you tomorrow, Combeferre."

"Tomorrow." Combeferre pauses at the door to his own lodging-house, pulling away from Enjolras with reluctance. "Be safe."

Enjolras simply nods, serene, and continues on his way.

 

XXX

Grantaire starts drinking as soon as he gets home.

He supposes it would be more accurate to say that he _continues_ drinking when he gets home, since he'd been drinking at the Musain as well, but he feels as though sobriety has suddenly gotten the upper hand on him.

_Stay away from him_.

Combeferre's words continue to echo in his mind, no matter how much he drinks. They seem to become louder the more he drinks, actually, which is completely unfair.

He should have been more careful. He shouldn't have let Combeferre notice him following. He should have had better answers to Combeferre's questions.

He shouldn't have dropped the damn sketchpad.

Why did it have to open to _that_ page? So many others that it could have fallen open on, and that's the one that it chose.

Granted, he's spent a great deal of time pouring over that particular image, but it's not for the reason that Combeferre thinks. It's one of the few times his images of Enjolras have actually captured a bit of what makes the man… well, _Enjolras_. A bit of that fire, a bit of that flame, a bit of that otherworldly stare that can be so captivating to watch, and he's used that image as a reference for others that he's tried.

He has sketches and half-finished paintings of Enjolras everywhere, really, and it was inevitable that someone else would see them. Perhaps it was inevitable that someone else would see one of _those_ , too, one of the ones where he defiles all that Enjolras is because he can't make his fingers stop and he sometimes can't get images out of his head until he gets them down on paper and this has all gone so incredibly wrong.

What did he expect, though? There's really no way that it could have gone _right_.

An infernal, steady pounding interrupts his thoughts again, and he blinks blurrily at the door for a moment before realizing that the sound actually has a real source.

Someone is knocking at his door.

Perhaps Combeferre's decided to simply kill him rather than torment him.

That's actually a rather cheering thought, and Grantaire forces himself to his feet and over to the door. It takes him a few attempts to actually turn the handle, but eventually he manages to open the door and peer outside.

It isn't Combeferre.

It's Enjolras.

Enjolras is standing in his doorway.

For several long seconds Grantaire simply stares at the man. Enjolras stares back at him, blue eyes calm, expression unreadable.

"How…?" Grantaire frowns. This isn't possible. This must be some kind of hallucination.

"I know where all of the Amis take lodgings." Enjolras answers his half-question, taking his hands from the pockets of his coat as he does. "Is it all right if I come in?"

"Depends." Grantaire looks suspiciously over Enjolras' shoulder. "Might get me shot."

"No." The corners of Enjolras' mouth twitch, in something that could be a smile or could be exasperation. "I talked with Combeferre. You aren't going to be shot."

"Oh. That's good." After another few seconds Grantaire shambles back out of the doorway. "Come in, I guess. If you want to."

"I would like to, at least for a few minutes." Enjolras slides into Grantaire's apartment with his usual grace, his eyes scanning the main room, pausing briefly on the door to the bedroom, on the window, and Grantaire knows what he's doing.

Marking escape routes, marking options, preparing for a battle, and it makes his stomach clench hard. "I wouldn't… I didn't… I won't hurt you."

"I know." Enjolras seems mildly surprised as he turns back to meet Grantaire's gaze. "It's force of habit, Grantaire. I always make sure to know my environment and my options."

"Oh. All right." Grantaire nods before glancing around his apartment as well, realizing exactly how unsuited it currently is for guests. Clothing has started collecting in corners again, despite his best efforts. Empty bottles are scattered across the floor and table. Half-finished paintings and sketches cover what surfaces aren't devoted to alcohol… and an awful lot of those pictures feature Enjolras.

Enjolras approaches one of the paintings, one that's almost finished, and studies it intently.

"Uh… I…" Grantaire swallows, hard. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Enjolras raises his eyes from the painting to meet Grantaire's gaze. "I like it."

"You… like it?" Blinking, Grantaire tries to read any evidence of a lie or flattery in Enjolras' face or tone and finds nothing.

"In my opinion, which has only a cursory grounding in art, this is gorgeous. You capture a fair likeness of me, and there's something… unique about the line-work. Passionate. Unrestrained." Enjolras smiles. "I like it. I wish you'd do images of the others like this."

"I have. A few." Swallowing hard again, Grantaire grabs another painting, this one complete, that's been lying against the wall for the last few weeks. "Joly and Bossuet. I was thinking of giving it to Joly for his birthday, along with a good bottle of wine."

Enjolras' smile grows as he studies the painting. "I think that's a fantastic idea, Grantaire."

"So… you…" Grantaire's not sure how to start this conversation.

Enjolras clearly isn't intent on helping him, the man simply watching him with that too-direct gaze.

"Did Combeferre tell you about what he saw?" The words come out in a rush, and Grantaire feels his cheeks burn with shame. "What I've done?"

"You've followed me. You've sketched me in apparently compromising positions." Enjolras doesn't seem bothered by the words that he's speaking.

Grantaire almost finds that more disconcerting than if Enjolras were angry. "Yeah. I've been following you. I've been sketching you. Mostly just sketching _you_ , doing what you do, but sometimes I got more… creative."

Enjolras nods. "Could I see them?"

Grantaire's first impulse is to say no. There's really no point in that, though, not when Combeferre's already seen the pictures. "I… suppose."

It takes Enjolras the better part of a half hour to go through the entire sketchbook. When he's done, he carefully closes the book and hands it back to Grantaire.

Grantaire stands, holding the sketchbook, wondering what he could possibly say to make this less awkward.

"I like the image of Joly and Musichetta." Enjolras smiles. "The one on the third page, the small sketch, it's got quite a lot of life to it. You captured Joly's smile well. And the one of Courfeyrac towards the end is beautiful—managing to portray even a bit of his verve is impressive."

"Uh… huh." Grantaire continues to stare at the blond man. That can't be all of his reaction. It's not humanly possible.

"Why have you been following me?" The question is asked simply, succinctly.

"Because it's what I always want to do." The truth is easier than trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. "Because you're everything I love in the world, and if I can just follow you and watch you… I will be happy."

Enjolras nods. "What were you planning on doing when Combeferre told you to stay away from me?"

"Drinking." Grantaire studies the bottles on the floor. "Then drinking some more."

"Nothing else?" Enjolras tilts his head, just slightly, studying Grantaire intently.

"Like what?" Shrugging, Grantaire looks away. "If I don't have you, if I don't have the Musain and the others… drinking is a good way to spend my life."

"You could always have decided to turn us in." The words are calm—too calm, almost flippant in how unconcerned they are.

"Never." Grantaire can't keep the absolute disgust that fills him from his voice. "If he keeps me away from you—especially because of who I am, what I've done—it's no reason to hurt you or the others. Or even him. I would never betray you."

"I believe you." Enjolras smiles, briefly but brightly, his expression suddenly fiercely possessive and almost… pleased?

That can't be right. Enjolras is very rarely anything but frustrated with him.

"It's late. I'm going to head home." Enjolras moves to the door but pauses before opening it. "If you'd like to follow me, Grantaire, you're quite welcome to walk at my side this time."

"Really?" The word is barely audible to Grantaire's own ears, but Enjolras seems to hear anyway.

"Really." Enjolras extends a hand for Grantaire to take. "You don't have to, of course. I'm simply going to sleep. But if you want to… if you'd prefer to study me sleeping by candlelight instead of by moonlight… you're welcome to come."

It's a dream.

It's the only explanation that makes sense to Grantaire, because there is no reality in which Enjolras takes his hand and they walk through the streets together. There is no reality in which Enjolras dresses for bed and crawls under the covers, ignoring Grantaire sitting at his desk with a sketchpad open in front of him.

There is no reality in which Enjolras presses a spare key into Grantaire's hand, telling him to lock the door if he decides to leave.

There is no reality that could be this good, but it's a wonderful dream, and Grantaire hopes that he doesn't wake for a while.

 

XXX

He's fairly certain he's still dreaming the next day.

Enjolras doesn't act as though anything's happened, but the images from last night are captured with equal clarity in Grantaire's memory and in quick sketches. When he isn't thinking of the pictures, he can still feel the warmth of Enjolras' hand on his.

Then Combeferre sits down next to him at his corner table, and Grantaire starts to reconsider it all being a dream.

Combeferre studies him with that inscrutable, vaguely disapproving expression that only he can manage.

Grantaire stares back at him, keeping his jaw set determinedly. Enjolras said it was all right for him to be here, and he's certain Combeferre wouldn't shoot him in front of the others.

Mostly certain.

Relatively certain.

Joly would at least try to keep him from bleeding to death, probably.

"He wants you to be close to him." Combeferre narrows his eyes. "I don't quite understand it, but I trust his judgment."

Grantaire finds himself grinning, the warmth of Enjolras' fingers on his running up his arm to fill his chest and spill out to the rest of his body. "I won't hurt him. I won't disappoint him. You'll see."

"I think… you'll try." Combeferre sighs. "He's right about that. You'll try. And I'm going to do everything in my power to help you succeed."

Grantaire stares in open-mouthed shock at Combeferre.

Combeferre smiles. "Don't look so surprised."

"Would it be better if I said that I'm scared?" Smiling tentatively, Grantaire reaches for his glass. "You're… rather intimidating."

"Intimidating?" Combeferre quirks one eyebrow and smiles. It's not a very reassuring smile. "I suppose that's useful. You'll get his respect for succeeding; you'll have me to deal with in case of repeated failure."

Grantaire frowns down at his drink.

"And to help you _not_ fail." Combeferre's hand covers his, briefly. "Because I think that would be best for all of us in the long term, right?"

"I think I'll have fewer holes in me that way." Grantaire finds himself smiling up at Combeferre, hope burning through him once more. "He really wants me close to him?"

"Yes." Combeferre stands, clapping him on the shoulder. "He wants you close to him. And where he goes, I go."

"I think I'm all right with that." A grin spreads across Grantaire's face, and he lifts his glass in lonely toast. "To trying and to succeeding."

"To friends and to shadows." Combeferre taps his fingernail against Grantaire's glass, coaxing a single beautiful note from it. "And to watching his _face_ when he's speaking. Or sitting. Or walking. Or anything else."

"I will try." Grantaire shrugs, voice falling to a whisper as Combeferre walks away, back to his spot at Enjolras' side. "Or at least try not to be so obvious about it when I fail."

If Combeferre hears, he doesn't deign to respond, and the dream continues to play out beautifully for the rest of the night, ending with the three of them walking home together in silence, Enjolras reaching out every once in a while to brush his fingers across Grantaire's.

There's really nothing more than Grantaire could ask for in the world.

At least… not yet.

If given free rein, he's sure his imagination will come up with many options. And who knows?

In this wonderful dream, maybe it'll work out all right.


End file.
